Akashi looks like a slight young woman who has been assembled rather than raised. Her movements are quiet, exact, and unnervingly economical, with every turn of the wrist suggesting that she is measuring distance, leverage, and blood loss. Her face is narrow and youthful, but the skin around her knuckles and jaw carries faint silver stitch marks from self-experimentation. She has a habit of smiling warmly while discussing catastrophic injuries. The unexpected contradiction is her hands: they are delicate, ink-stained, and almost tender in motion, yet each fingertip is capped with retractable surgical steel. She leaves behind the impression of a polite physician who has mistaken the world for a specimen jar.